by David Stone
Our guests had gone home, hours ago. Dishes done, drying on the rack, you lounged in one of our old chairs, reading God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater. A lamp hung a lemon umbrella above you. Across the room, I sunk into Robert Lowell, interrupting you all the time to read out loud verses that stung me. Rimsky-Korsakoff met the rustle of summer at our window. It was one, two, three, four a.m.... You started to say something. If there was one thing more in the world worth living for, I didn’t know it.
- See also: Binghamton: A Narrative In Verse